


Familiar Like My Mirror

by Big_Mood_Inc



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier can have a little murder, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, as a treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24201439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Big_Mood_Inc/pseuds/Big_Mood_Inc
Summary: Despite what many people may think, Jaskier is not an idiot.Foolishly optimistic? Maybe.Easily distracted? Definitely arguable.Hopeless romantic? Without a doubt.But an idiot? Not a chance.And because he is not an idiot, he knows within the first glance that the thing walking into their camp is not his witcher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 31
Kudos: 921
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo





	Familiar Like My Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by ep 54 of Full Metal Alchemist: Brotherhood, when Hawkeye fights Envy.

Despite what many people may think, Jaskier is not an idiot.

Foolishly optimistic? Maybe.

Easily distracted? Definitely arguable.

Hopeless romantic? Without a doubt.

But an idiot? Not a chance.

He understands how people can easily make that assumption. He must make quite the sight, trailing behind a witcher in his bright garish silks. Following Geralt into swamps and caves and forests—and even on one memorable occasion a haunted brothel—with nothing but his lute and his wits.

He can understand why so many think him naïve. Just a stupid bard with his stupid songs that’s likely to be killed sooner or later by some monster.

 _Surely_ , he just doesn’t understand how dangerous the life of a witcher is.

O _bviously,_ if he actually knew the risks he wouldn’t stick around.

 _Of course,_ someone like him wouldn’t know how to defend himself.

But they’re wrong.

He knows exactly what kind of danger he’s putting himself in by following his witcher, and he isn’t stupid enough to believe Geralt will always be there to protect him.

Which was why by their second week of traveling together, Jaskier had gone to a blacksmith and bought himself a silver dagger.

It was simple in design, sleek with a hilt wrapped in brown leather. It had cost him a great deal of coin, but it was worth it. The blade was comfortable to wield, fitting into his grip as though it had been made just for him, and tucking neatly into his boot and out of sight.

For the majority of his travels with Geralt, that’s where the dagger remained. Concealed and unused.

The only times it ever got pulled out were for practice. To make sure the skills he honed as a young nobleman’s son had not gotten rusty. A weapon is, after all, only as good as the person wielding it.

So no, Jaskier is not an idiot.

And because he is not an idiot, he knows within the first glance that the thing walking into their camp is not his witcher.

Even if he hadn’t known immediately, Roach’s distress at its approach would have been enough to send warning signals off in his brain.

He has to admit, it’s a good costume. The hair, the eyes, the exhausted glower, it’s a perfect recreation. Anyone else would have undoubtedly been fooled.

Unfortunately for this thing, he’s not just anyone.

“Hunt go well?” he tries to keep his voice light, tries not to raise any suspicion as he quickly flips through his mental bestiary to remember what kinds of shapeshifters Geralt told him about.

Definitely not a kelpie. Even though they can shift into a human form they couldn’t mimic a person’s appearance. Not a puca either, they could only take the form of animals.

No, this could only be one thing.

A doppler.

The fake Geralt grunts in response as he flops down in front of the fire and Jaskier wrinkles his nose at the sound. This thing is familiar with Geralt’s nonverbal habits.

Geralt did mention something about memories, didn’t he? It was a mere few weeks ago that Geralt was telling him about dopplers, and of course he’d been listening attentively.

But that day had been so nice, the first sunny day after a full week of rain, and the way the sun caught Geralt’s eyes made them glow like rich amber gemstones and oh! He could truly write sonnets about how his hair shone like finely spun silver in the midmorning light.

Maybe he’d gotten a little distracted.

Damn his poetic soul.

So, the doppler may or may not have access to Geralt’s memories. That’s fine. He can work with that. The only other possible explanation would be that this thing had been watching them, which is patently _absurd_ because surely Geralt would have sensed if the doppler had been watching them.

Right?

Well regardless, he isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. If the doppler wants to play silent witcher that suits his needs just fine. At least this way he doesn’t have to worry about faking any meaningful dialogue. He’s free to mindlessly prattle on about whatever pops into his brain while he subtly scopes out the clearing.

He can’t be reckless. The doppler may not have any of Geralt’s fighting skills, but it still has his height—his sheer bulk—at its disposal.

If it comes down to a battle of strength Jaskier would be dead. He needs to play this smart.

He isn’t a fighter, never has been. He was a sensitive child, much smaller and softer than the other boys. His father was smart to hire a combat tutor that knew how to use those things to his benefit. He’s small, but that means he can be fast. He knows how to use the terrain to his advantage and keep his movements quick and precise.

The imposter isn’t paying any attention to him, too busy ravenously tucking into one of the rabbits Jaskier had been roasting over the fire.

Too busy to see Jaskier slowly positioning himself, just at the edge of the clearing, his back just barely leaning against the trunk of a sturdy oak.

Too busy to catch the glint of his blade as he pulls it from its hidden sheath.

“You’re not Geralt.”

Broad shoulders lock up, and the doppler turns to glare at him, golden eyes blazing.

Well, that finally got its attention.

“Jaskier, what the fuck are you talking about,” it growls.

And suddenly Jaskier is furious. How _dare_ this thing walk around here, wearing Geralt’s face, using Geralt’s voice, eating Geralt’s _fucking dinner_ as if it has any right to it.

“You’re. Not. Geralt.” He repeats tersely.

The thing scoffs, “have you finally lost your mind bard?”

Jaskier keeps his face stoic, unyielding, as he stares down the doppler, “Geralt calls me Julian when we’re alone.”

There’s a heavy beat of silence hanging between the two of them before Geralt’s face twists into a fierce snarl, “I didn’t realize you two were so familiar!”

It charges.

His heart is beating wildly in his chest and he takes a deep breath as the doppler gets closer, closer, closerclosercloser—there!

He catches the doppler mid-step, knocking it off balance enough that he can use its own weight and momentum against it. He quickly spins them, swapping their positions and pinning the doppler against the tree. 

His forearm is pressed harshly against its pale throat, holding it in place. He’s close enough now that he can feel the warmth of the dopplers breath against his face, see the fine sheen of sweat on its brow, smell the foul reek of decay clinging to its skin.

“I lied,” he says plainly.

The doppler’s eyes widen for a moment, but before it can speak Jaskier plunges his silver dagger into its chest.

The blade slices through flesh and muscle like butter, easily sliding up between its ribs and right into its heart.

The doppler gapes at him for one, two, three seconds before it goes slack in his hold.

Its eyes are wide open, and Jaskier can’t help but watch in fascination as the gold color slowly seeps away, leaving just a muted gray.

 _I killed it,_ he thinks to himself, _I actually killed it._

Adrenaline is still pulsing through his veins and somehow, he feels energized and exhausted at the same time. Is this what Geralt feels like after every fight? No wonder he’s always so grumpy.

All Jaskier wants right now is a stiff drink and fucking nap.

His muscles are still would tight like a spring when he hears the sound of movement in the woods behind him.

He pulls his knife free of the doppler as he quickly turns on his heel. Distantly he registers the dull thump of its body hitting the ground behind him as he holds his bloody blade aloft, poised for defense.

There’s nothing he can see in the halo of firelight and unease starts prickling on the back of his neck, his mind already spinning with possibilities, as he scans the darkened woods before him.

“Show yourself!”

* * *

The contract had been easier than Geralt had anticipated.

When the townsfolk had approached him with a tale of the horrific creature that lived at the edge of the wood, they had painted a picture of a fearsome beast. They told of a massive creature with blood red eyes that had nearly torn a man’s arm off. It was only luck, they said, that he had managed to escape with his life.

Geralt had been prepared to fight all night. He’d actually been worried, on his trek to the beast’s lair, that the singular potion he’d taken might not be enough to face whatever was lurking in the caves.

That concern was laughable now.

He’d found the creature with hardly any difficulty at all. It was indeed large as the villagers had said, but the thing could barely lift its head off the ground. It was clearly unwell, and Geralt could see the milky white haze clouding its eyes. Blind then.

Whatever this thing was, it was old, alone, _vulnerable_. The unfortunate villager had probably wandered too close to its nest by accident and the creature had just lashed out in fear.

By the time Geralt reached the beast, it hardly had any more fight left in it. The thing didn’t even flinch as he approached, the only movement coming from the twitching of its long snout as its nose worked to scent the air.

As Geralt cut its head off he tries to tell himself it’s a mercy killing. Better for it to die quickly by his blade than leave the thing to starve slowly.

Still, it doesn’t sit right with him and his mood is fouler than usual as he walks out of the cave with its head tucked safely in a bag.

His body is still ready for a fight, the potion he’d taken still potent in his blood. Everything seems sharper, brighter, louder. Every creature rushing through the underbrush has his head snapping to follow the sound.

What he wouldn’t give for some strong Cintran ale right now.

He freezes when he catches a familiar scent in the air. The fetid smell of mildew, peat, and _rot_ is unmistakable.

_A doppler._

Ice cold dread sinks its claws into his chest as he remembers Jaskier, all alone at their camp. The bard would be a perfect target.

He curses to himself as he picks up his pace. Jaskier is practically defenseless, and there’s no telling what form the doppler had taken. A beautiful maiden? A child? A grandmother? Something unthreatening and placid, that Jaskier wouldn’t hesitate to usher to the warmth of their fire to share a song. Something that would catch Jaskier unawares when it decided to rob him blind.

As he gets closer to camp the smell of rot gets thicker and thicker and the dread sinks deeper into his bones. Perhaps the doppler wouldn’t be so generous as to just rob Jaskier and leave him with his life. Perhaps it was in these woods looking for someone to brutalize. What form would it take then? A bandit? A knight? A soldier?

He’s close enough now that he can see flickers of firelight through the trees, when suddenly he hears shouting.

_Fuck!_

He moves forward as swiftly and silently as he can. Dopplers are tricky by nature, he doesn’t want to give away his advantage just yet.

He isn’t sure what to expect when he hits the tree line, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

For Jaskier holding a perfect copy of _himself_ against a tree.

He can just barely see where the bard’s slim fingers are wrapped around the hilt of a dagger protruding from the double’s chest.

From where he stands Geralt can hear everything. He can hear the dopplers wet gasping breaths as it struggles to take in air. He can hear how its punctured heart stutters, then slows, then finally stills. He can even hear Jaskier’s pulse, thrumming wildly like a hummingbird’s wings in his chest.

There’s something disconcerting about seeing his own face still with death. About seeing his own body go slack and lifeless in Jaskier’s hold. Something, he’s sure, that will come back to haunt him tonight when he’s trying to sleep.

Fuck, Jaskier. Did he even know it was a doppler? Did it hurt him? Did he think _Geralt_ would hurt him?

He should leave. Jaskier’s breaths are coming in frantic puffs and the rotten scent of the doppler has been completely overrun by the scent of fear. He’s obviously still panicked, and seeing Geralt right now could make it worse.

He should give Jaskier a chance to calm down. The bard isn’t expecting him back until much later anyway, it wouldn’t be amiss if Geralt weren’t to come back until morning.

His decision, however, is made for him when he shifts his weight and a branch cracks loudly under his foot.

Jaskier’s eyes snap up and Geralt is grateful for the darkness that keeps him hidden from the bard’s human senses. He can still leave; he can turn around right now and find himself a nice tree to sleep under until daylight.

He hesitates.

Jaskier’s heartbeat is thundering away but still the bard squares his shoulders, a wild look in his eyes as he raises his bloody dagger.

“Show yourself!”

Geralt lets out a long sigh before stepping into the clearing. He keeps his hands raised in front of him, free of any weapons, hoping to ease any fear or hesitation Jaskier may have at his approach.

But Jaskier lives to surprise him it seems.

As soon as he’s fully enveloped in the halo of firelight Jaskier lets out a relieved breath, “oh Geralt! Thank the gods you’re back, I’ve had quite the stressful evening. Hunt go well?” he asks breezily as he makes quick work of wiping his blade and tucking it away in his boot.

Geralt is frozen in place as the bard looks at him expectantly.

“Jaskier, its me.”

The bard cocks his head, an amused smile curling at the corners of his lips, “yes Geralt, I can see that.”

And Geralt’s head is spinning because Jaskier almost sounds like he’s laughing at him. Like this is _funny_.

He grunts in frustration, “no I mean I’m the _real_ Geralt. That thing you killed was a—”

“A doppler, yes I sort of gathered that,” Jaskier interrupts, arching an eyebrow at him, “I do listen to your impromptu monster lessons you know, when you deign to give them. Even if your lecturing skills need some work. Honestly Geralt you make everything so _dry_.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes before settling down in front of the fire, _tsk_ ing at the charred remains of the rabbit that had been left to burn during the scuffle. Acting as though there’s not a corpse lying less than 10 feet from him.

Geralt can feel a headache starting to wrap its way around his skull.

“How,” He grits out, “how did you know? That it wasn’t me?”

Jaskier blinks up at him before grinning brightly, “oh darling that’s easy. You took Cat before you left. That potion lasts at least eight hours, and it’s hardly even been two. As soon as that thing flashed golden eyes at me, I knew what it was.”

Geralt’s fingers fly up to his face, to the dark veins he knows are spiderwebbing out from black eyes as Jaskier carries on, “seeing as your eyes are still black as pitch, I’m fairly confident that you are the true Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier says everything so matter of factly that Geralt is left gaping.

“You’ll catch flies like that,” Jaskier grins, “Come sit. Have a bite to eat.” He pats the log beside him and Geralt is helpless but to follow. He quickly deposits the head laden sack by his bags before setting down heavily next to Jaskier.

“You’re very perceptive,” he says finally, as Jaskier passes him a large portion of rabbit.

Jaskier snorts, his scent turning the slightest bit sour, “I’ve been traveling with you for years Geralt. And when I’m not with you I’m travelling alone. Regardless of what you or anyone else may think, I’m actually quite competent.”

Geralt wants to deny that he thought Jaskier incompetent, but he has a feeling that they’d both know it was a lie. Instead he says, “do you still have that flask of vodka from Vizima?”

Jaskier groans dramatically, “Gods-a-mercy, I forgot about that!”

The bard abandons his meal as he digs through his bag, letting out a crow of victory when he finally pulls the flask free. Jaskier wastes no time uncorking the bottle and tipping it back for a generous swig.

“Fuck! I needed that,” he coughs, collapsing back on the log and passing the flask to Geralt.

The spirit burns all the way down his throat before settling as a heavy warmth in his stomach. It’s nowhere near enough to get him drunk, but perhaps it’s just enough to loosen his tongue.

“I was worried,” he says carefully, “when I caught the doppler’s scent in the woods. I was afraid of what I’d find when I came back,” of finding Jaskier’s body beaten and discarded like a piece of trash, “and knowing that instead of being here, I was wasting time on a bullshit contract.”

The last bit comes out like snarl that echoes through silence of the clearing. He can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, but he can’t find it in himself to meet his gaze

“You can’t always protect me Geralt,” Jaskier says finally, “and I don’t expect you to.”

“I want to,” Geralt says softly, and maybe it’s the vodka or maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline that allows him to be so bold as to reach down and take Jaskier’s hand in his.

The bard blinks down at their entwined fingers before lifting his wide eyes to look at Geralt. There’s a delicate pink dusting his cheeks as he breathes out a small ‘ _Oh’._

And then Jaskier is quiet, and Geralt's resolve starts to weaken because Jaskier is _never_ quiet, and just when he’s about to pull away and apologize and pretend like this never happened, Jaskier squeezes his hand.

“I suppose we’ll just have to protect each other then.”

Warmth blooms in Geralt’s chest, “I suppose we will,” he grins, “can’t think of anyone else willing to save your sorry ass every time you act like an idiot and start a bar fight.”

Jaskier lets out an indignant noise, “oh, so first I’m incompetent and now I’m an idiot? Truly charming Geralt, really. I’m practically swooning.”

“I don’t think you’re a _complete_ idiot—”

“But you don’t deny the incompetence!”

Geralt huffs out a laugh, “maybe I did think you were a bit inept,” he ignores Jaskier’s offended squawk, “but to be fair, I didn’t know you could fight.”

Jaskier leans heavily into his space, his body a long line of heat against his side, “darling, you never asked,” he says, batting his eyelashes coyly.

Geralt rolls his eyes, but cannot stop the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “well I’m asking now,” he says, moving his arm to wrap around the bard’s shoulder and pull him closer.

“I know how to use a blade,” Jaskier starts, relaxing against him further, “not the way you do of course, but father insisted that I at least know how to defend myself.”

Geralt hums, the thought of Jaskier wielding one of his swords sparking something hot in his blood, “we should practice sometime. I think I’d like to learn just how capable you are.”

“Oh, I’d be very happy to show you,” Jaskier purrs.

And Geralt knows how he must look, with the effects of Cat still lingering, but Jaskier is looking at him with hunger, with _adoration._

There’s no hesitation from either of them as Geralt pulls Jaskier in for a tender kiss.

“Don’t think I’ll go easy on you,” Geralt breathes against his lips.

Jaskier grins at him, eyes practically glowing in the firelight, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”


End file.
